When Shunjiro woke, he did not know how much time had passed.

The black eclipse beyond the window had not moved, and the dead forest outside looked exactly as it had before he fell asleep. Nothing in the Shadow Realm offered a normal sense of morning. There was no sunlight creeping across the floor, no birds calling from the trees, and no change in the color of the sky.

Still, his body felt different.

The exhaustion that had weighed on him the night before was gone. His muscles no longer felt heavy, and the dull ache behind his eyes had faded. He felt as though he had slept through an entire night without waking once.

He sat up slowly and looked around the room.

The bed was still neatly made beneath him, though the blanket had twisted around his legs while he slept. The small lamp beside the bed had burned low, its flame barely bright enough to light the faded wallpaper. The room remained strangely clean compared to the rest of the mansion.

His eyes moved toward the door.

Malachi said to come find him when I wake up.

Shunjiro pushed the blanket aside and stood. The clothes Malachi had given him fit better than they had the night before, though the shirt still hung slightly loose around his shoulders. He folded the blanket back over the mattress as best he could before walking to the chair where he had placed the cloak.

The dark fabric settled heavily over him when he put it on. He pulled the hood up for a moment, testing how much it covered his face, then lowered it again.

It is warmer than it looks.

He glanced toward the window once more.

The forest beyond the mansion was still hidden behind mist.

I should find Malachi.

He reached for the door, then paused.

The lock was still turned from the night before.

Shunjiro unlocked it and stepped into the hallway.

The mansion was quiet.

Not empty, exactly. He could hear faint sounds somewhere deeper inside the building, the soft shift of old wood and the distant clink of something metallic against stone. But Malachi was nowhere in sight, and the corridors stretched away in both directions beneath the dim lamps.

Shunjiro stood still for a moment, considering which way to go.

I could call for him.

The thought lasted only a second.

No. He said he would be somewhere in the mansion. I can look around before I find him.

He began walking.

The first few rooms he passed were closed, but curiosity eventually got the better of him. He opened one door carefully and found a bedroom that looked as though no one had entered it in years. Dust covered the furniture. A thin gray layer had settled across the bedframe, the desk, and the old mirror mounted against the wall. The curtains had fallen halfway from their rod, leaving one side of the room exposed to the dark window beyond.

Shunjiro closed the door quietly and continued down the hall.

The next room was larger.

It had once been a sitting room, judging by the worn couches arranged around a cold fireplace and the shelves built into the walls. Most of the books had been removed, leaving empty spaces between the few that remained. A small table stood near the center of the room, set with nothing but a layer of dust thick enough to show that nobody had sat there in a long time.

He kept walking.

There were more bedrooms, each different in shape and size, but all of them unused. One had a child-sized bed near the window. Another had a writing desk covered in old papers that had yellowed at the edges. A third held a long wardrobe with one door hanging slightly open, revealing nothing but darkness inside.

Shunjiro did not go through any of them.

He was curious, but there was a line between looking around and treating Malachi’s home like it belonged to him.

Still, the mansion felt too large for one person.

How long has he been here alone?

Malachi had said he used to be a king, but he had not explained much more than that. Shunjiro could not stop wondering what kind of life the older man had before this place. The mansion had enough rooms for an entire household. It had halls large enough for gatherings, dining spaces built for more people than would ever use them, and corridors that seemed designed for footsteps that no longer existed.

The room Malachi had given him had been clean.

The rest of the mansion had not.

Maybe he keeps that room ready in case someone needs it.

The thought made sense.

It also made Shunjiro wonder how often anyone found their way to Malachi’s mansion.

He turned down another corridor and stopped in front of a pair of tall doors.

Unlike the others, these doors were carved with detailed patterns that had not been hidden beneath dust. Shunjiro pushed one open slowly.

A library stretched out before him.

The room was enormous, with shelves climbing toward a ceiling so high that the uppermost rows disappeared into shadow. Old ladders stood against several sections of the walls, and long tables filled the open space beneath the shelves. Most were covered in dust, but the books themselves had been protected better than the furniture. Their spines ranged from cracked leather to faded cloth, some marked with symbols he did not recognize.

Shunjiro stepped inside.

The smell of old paper and wood surrounded him immediately.

His eyes moved across the shelves.

There had to be information here. Maps. Records. Books about the Shadow Realm. Maybe even something about the Eclipsed Abyss, the eight EX ranks, or the four continents beyond the stories he had grown up hearing.

I should ask Malachi about this later.

He walked farther into the library, letting his eyes pass over the titles that were still readable.

Some appeared to be history. Others looked like old journals or story books. Several shelves were filled with thick volumes that had no labels at all.

There might be something here that can help me understand the world better.

He wanted to pull one down immediately.

But training was supposed to begin soon, and he did not know how long Malachi had been waiting.

Reluctantly, Shunjiro stepped back from the shelves.

“I will come back,” he said quietly.

The library, of course, did not answer.

He left the room and continued through the mansion until the hallway eventually opened into the entrance hall.

Malachi was standing near the front doors.

He had one hand resting against the wooden frame beside the entrance, and his eyes were turned toward the narrow gap between the curtains where the dead forest could be seen beyond the glass. He wore simpler clothing than he had the night before, though it still carried the same old-fashioned style. His sword was not on his back.

Shunjiro slowed.

For a moment, Malachi did not turn around.

Then he spoke.

“You slept well.”

It was not a question.

Shunjiro stepped farther into the room. “I think so.”

Malachi glanced over his shoulder, his purple eyes moving briefly over the cloak and the cleaner clothes.

“You look less like someone who crawled out of a battlefield.”

“I did not crawl out of it.”

Malachi’s mouth lifted slightly. “No. You were carried away by a portal. Much more dignified.”

Shunjiro looked away before Malachi could see the small smile trying to form.

“I was looking around,” he said.

“I noticed.”

“You knew I was awake?”

“I heard you walking through the east wing.”

Shunjiro looked back at him. “From here?”

“The mansion is quieter than you think.”

That was not really an answer, but Malachi’s tone suggested he did not feel like explaining it further.

Instead, he turned away from the doors.

“I made something light to eat. You should have enough in your stomach before training, but not enough that you regret it the first time you hit the ground.”

Shunjiro followed him toward the dining hall.

“I am going to hit the ground?”

Malachi looked back at him.

“Probably.”

“That is reassuring.”

The dining hall looked the same as it had the night before, though the fireplace had burned lower and the table had been cleared. Two plates waited near the end of it, each holding warm bread, sliced fruit, a boiled egg, and a small amount of dried meat. A pitcher of water rested between them.

Malachi sat down across from him.

“Eat,” he said. “We will have lunch after training.”

Shunjiro sat and reached for the bread.

The food was simple, but it was fresh. He ate slowly at first, trying not to seem too hungry, though his body still remembered how empty he had felt in the forest.

Malachi noticed anyway.

“You can eat faster,” he said. “I am not going to take it from you.”

“I was not worried you would.”

“Good. That would be a strange thing to worry about.”

For a few moments, they ate in silence.

Shunjiro tried to keep his expression calm, but his thoughts kept returning to what was waiting for him outside. He was about to train with Malachi, someone who had once been a king and still held an EX rank. The idea felt unreal.

The strongest person Shunjiro had trained with before had been Kaito.

Kaito’s training had been brutal.

He had pushed Shunjiro until his body shook, until his energy ran low, until every mistake became impossible to ignore. Shunjiro had learned more under Kaito than he had from almost anyone else.

But Malachi was not just stronger than Kaito.

He was one of the eight strongest people in the world.

What does training under someone like that even look like?

The thought made his stomach twist with nervous excitement.

It is probably going to be worse than Kaito’s training.

That should have made him less eager.

It did not.

This is the first step. I need to become strong enough to protect them. Strong enough that no one can take me away again.

Malachi looked up from his food.

“You are trying very hard not to look excited.”

Shunjiro nearly choked on his water.

“I am just ready to train.”

“That is usually what excited people say when they want to pretend they are not excited.”

Shunjiro set his cup down.

Malachi gave a quiet laugh.

“There is nothing wrong with it,” he said. “You should want to improve. Just do not mistake wanting strength for understanding what strength costs.”

The words were calm, but they carried enough weight that Shunjiro nodded.

“I will not.”

Malachi studied him for a moment, then stood.

“Good. Finish eating. Then we will see where you are.”

Shunjiro ate the rest of his meal quickly.

A short time later, Malachi led him out through the front doors and down the stone steps of the mansion.

The air outside was cold enough that Shunjiro immediately pulled the hood of his cloak over his head.

The estate looked different now that he had slept.

The iron fencing still surrounded the grounds, tall and dark against the mist. The dead gardens stretched out on either side of the path, their stone borders cracked and empty. The faceless statues stood exactly where they had the night before, watching over the grounds with their worn, ruined features.

But Malachi did not lead him toward the front gate.

Instead, he guided Shunjiro around the side of the mansion and through a narrow path between two sections of dead garden. The trees thinned there, opening into a wide field contained within the iron fencing.

The ground was hard and dry beneath Shunjiro’s boots. Dead grass covered parts of the field in thin, colorless patches, but most of the space was open dirt. Old stone posts stood along the edge, some leaning at sharp angles, others broken in half.

It was large enough for several people to train at once.

Shunjiro looked around.

“This is where you train?”

“It is where I train when I feel like training outside,” Malachi said.

“You have somewhere inside too?”

Malachi gave him a glance. “You have been exploring.”

“A little.”

“You will find it eventually.”

Shunjiro looked back toward the field.

The space felt open, but not exposed. The mansion rose behind them, and the iron fencing kept the dead forest at a distance. Beyond the bars, mist moved between the trees in slow waves.

Malachi walked toward the center of the field before turning to face him.

“Before we do anything else,” he said, “tell me about your ability.”

Shunjiro stopped several steps away.

“My ability?”

“Yes.”

Shunjiro hesitated.

He had never liked explaining this part.

“I do not really have one.”

Malachi’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You do not have an ability?”

“I can use spiritual energy,” Shunjiro said. “That is all I have ever been able to do.”

Malachi waited.

Shunjiro shifted his weight slightly.

“My energy is strange, though.”

“Strange how?”

“Sometimes it feels like it is barely there.” Shunjiro looked down at one of his hands. “Other times, it spikes without warning. I have had moments where I felt like I could use S-rank strength, but I cannot control when it happens.”

Malachi’s expression did not change.

“Continue.”

Shunjiro took a breath.

“I can conceal it too. Better than I should be able to.” He looked back up. “During an exam, I got close enough to an SSS-ranked fighter that he did not sense me coming.”

That made Malachi’s eyes narrow slightly.

“You concealed your energy from an SSS-ranked opponent?”

“Yes.”

“Completely?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“He did not notice me until I was already close.”

Malachi was quiet for a moment.

“And you cannot do it whenever you want?”

“No.”

“Can you explain what you do when it happens?”

Shunjiro shook his head.

“It just happens. Sometimes I try to use my energy, and it feels like there is nothing there. Other times it feels like it is trying to come out all at once.”

Malachi watched him for several seconds without speaking.

Then he nodded toward the open space between them.

“Fight me.”

Shunjiro blinked.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“With what?”

“Whatever you are comfortable using.”

Shunjiro looked at Malachi’s empty hands.

“You are not using your sword?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I am trying to understand your energy, not cut you in half.”

The answer was so direct that Shunjiro did not know how to respond for a second.

Malachi raised one hand slightly.

“I will fight bare-handed. You will fight however you normally fight.”

Shunjiro nodded.

“I fight bare-handed.”

“Then that makes this easy.”

Malachi stepped back several paces.

As he moved, Shunjiro felt it.

Malachi was concealing his spiritual energy.

He could tell that much.

But even suppressed, it was overwhelming.

The pressure did not crush down on him the way an enemy’s energy sometimes did. It was calmer than that. Controlled. Almost quiet.

That made it worse.

Shunjiro could feel that Malachi was holding something back so completely that even the small amount he allowed through was enough to make the air around him seem heavier.

This is him holding back?

Malachi settled into a relaxed stance.

“Do not think too hard,” he said. “Just fight.”

Shunjiro took a slow breath.

His body moved before he could let himself hesitate.

He stepped forward quickly, spiritual energy flowing into his legs as he crossed the distance. His first punch went toward Malachi’s shoulder, followed immediately by a strike aimed at his ribs.

Malachi moved.

Not fast enough to disappear from sight.

Not so fast that Shunjiro could not follow him.

But fast enough that both attacks missed.

Shunjiro turned with the movement, driving a kick toward Malachi’s side.

Malachi blocked it with one forearm.

The impact traveled up Shunjiro’s leg, but Malachi barely shifted.

Shunjiro pulled back.

That should have had more power behind it.

He felt the weakness immediately.

His energy was there, but it was thin. It reinforced his body enough to fight, but nowhere near the level he remembered reaching during the Coastal Kingdom battle.

The thought frustrated him.

He pushed it aside and moved again.

This time, he did not attack directly. He shifted left, then right, forcing Malachi to track his movement before he drove a low strike toward his stomach.

Malachi stepped back.

Shunjiro followed with another punch.

Malachi caught his wrist.

The grip was firm but controlled. He did not twist hard enough to hurt Shunjiro, only enough to stop the strike before it landed.

Shunjiro pulled free and used the movement to drive his elbow toward Malachi’s chest.

Malachi blocked again.

Then he let Shunjiro create distance.

They circled.

Shunjiro watched Malachi’s shoulders, his feet, the position of his hands.

There were no wasted movements.

No obvious opening.

He is letting me move, but he is not giving me anything.

Shunjiro rushed in again.

He threw a combination this time, keeping his strikes fast and close together. A jab toward the face. A hook toward the ribs. A knee aimed for the stomach.

Malachi blocked the first two.

The knee connected.

It struck Malachi’s side with enough force to make the older man shift half a step.

Shunjiro’s eyes widened.

I hit him.

Malachi did not look impressed or annoyed. He only watched.

Shunjiro attacked again.

His fist came forward.

Then something changed.

For the briefest moment, the energy around him vanished.

Not weakened.

Not lowered.

Gone.

Malachi’s eyes sharpened.

Shunjiro was still standing in front of him. Malachi could see him. He could hear the movement of his boots against the dry ground. He could feel the air shift around the punch.

But spiritually, there was nothing.

If Malachi had been blind or deaf, he would not have known Shunjiro was there at all.

The sensation lasted less than a second.

Then Shunjiro’s energy returned in a weak flicker as his fist reached Malachi.

Malachi blocked the strike, but his expression had changed.

Only slightly.

Shunjiro did not notice.

He was too focused on the frustration rising in his own chest.

His attacks should have been stronger.

He knew his body could move faster than this. He knew his energy could reinforce his strikes better than it was now. But every time he tried to force more out, it felt as though something inside him pulled back.

Like his own power was resisting him.

He landed another strike against Malachi’s shoulder.

Then a kick against his leg.

Malachi absorbed both without difficulty, moving enough to make Shunjiro work for every opening but allowing the blows to land when they came cleanly.

Shunjiro’s breathing began to quicken.

Come on.

He stepped in again.

His fist moved toward Malachi’s chest.

His energy dropped.

For one breath, he felt empty.

Then it returned, barely strong enough to finish the motion.

Malachi caught the punch in his palm.

“Stop,” he said.

Shunjiro froze.

Malachi lowered his hand.

For a few seconds, he said nothing.

Shunjiro wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

“Was that bad?”

“No.”

The answer came slowly.

“It was useful.”

Shunjiro waited.

Malachi looked past him for a moment, toward the iron fence and the dead trees beyond it. His expression had become thoughtful in a way Shunjiro recognized from the night before.

Then Malachi looked back at him.

“You said you do not have an ability.”

“I do not.”

“I do not think that is true.”

Shunjiro frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Malachi stepped closer, though he kept enough distance that Shunjiro did not have to look up too sharply.

“Spiritual energy is not just power,” Malachi said. “Most people understand it as strength. They think of it as something they pull from inside themselves and force into their muscles, weapons, or spells.”

Shunjiro listened carefully.

“That is not entirely wrong,” Malachi continued. “But it is incomplete. Spiritual energy is an extension of the soul. It is the part of you that reaches beyond your body.”

The wind shifted through the field, brushing cold air against Shunjiro’s cloak.

“Every person has a different relationship with it,” Malachi said. “Some people shape it into physical attacks. Some use it to heal. Others use it to strengthen their bodies. But no matter how it is used, spiritual energy is always connected to the soul that produces it.” 

Shunjiro looked down at his hands.

“So what is wrong with mine?”

“I do not think anything is wrong with it.”

Malachi’s eyes settled on him.

“I think you are holding it back.”

Shunjiro looked up.

“I am trying to use it.”

“You are trying to force it out,” Malachi corrected. “That is different.”

He walked several steps away and crouched near the ground. With one hand, he picked up a small stone from the dry dirt.

“Imagine a river behind a dam,” he said. “The water wants to move. It has pressure. It has somewhere to go.”

He held the stone in one hand, then closed his fingers around it.

“Now imagine someone standing at the gate, holding it shut with everything they have.”

Shunjiro watched him.

“The water does not disappear,” Malachi said. “It keeps pressing. Sometimes it leaks through. Sometimes the gate shakes. Sometimes the pressure becomes strong enough that it forces its way out in a burst.”

He opened his hand and dropped the stone.

“That is what your energy feels like.”

Shunjiro stayed silent.

“You are not failing to bring your spiritual energy out,” Malachi continued. “You are instinctively turning it off. Then when you try to fight, your energy tries to push through the hold you have placed on it.”

Shunjiro’s brow tightened.

“But I am not trying to turn it off.”

“No,” Malachi said. “Not consciously.”

The words settled heavily.

Shunjiro thought about every time his energy had disappeared when he needed it. Every time he had tried to sense it and found nothing. Every time it had suddenly surged in ways he could not control.

I have been doing this to myself?

“I do not understand,” he said quietly.

“That is because it has become instinct,” Malachi replied. “Your soul has learned how to conceal itself so completely that your body follows without you realizing it.”

Shunjiro stared at him.

“Conceal?”

Malachi nodded.

“When your energy vanished during the spar, you did not feel weak because you had run out of power. You felt weak because you were not allowing it to exist outside of you.”

Shunjiro remembered the strange empty feeling that had come over him between strikes.

“I was still there.”

“Physically, yes.”

Malachi’s expression remained calm, but there was something sharper behind his eyes now.

“Spiritually, you were not.”

Shunjiro did not know what to say.

Malachi continued.

“I have seen people conceal their energy before. Skilled fighters can suppress it until it is difficult to sense. They can make themselves seem weaker than they are. But there is always something left. A trace. A pressure. A presence.”

He paused.

“You had none.”

The field seemed quieter around them.

“No one in the history of this world has been able to conceal their spiritual energy to absolute zero,” Malachi said. “Not the strongest fighters. Not the greatest assassins. Not the people who built their entire lives around hiding what they were.”

Shunjiro’s chest tightened.

“You think I can?”

“I know you can.”

Malachi’s gaze did not move from his face.

“You did it twice in front of me.”

Shunjiro looked down again.

The idea felt impossible.

He had always believed his unstable energy was a weakness. A flaw he needed to work around while everyone else learned to control their abilities properly.

Now Malachi was telling him it might be something no one else had ever done.

Then why can I not use it when I need it?

The question came out before he could stop it.

“If I can do that, why do I feel weak all the time?”

“Because you do not know how to let go.”

Malachi’s answer was immediate.

“You have spent so long trying to force your energy into place that you have never asked whether you are holding it down first.”

Shunjiro’s hands curled into fists.

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Stop forcing it.”

“That is all?”

“No,” Malachi said. “It is not simple. But it is the beginning.”

He stepped closer and held one hand out, palm facing upward.

“Do not try to summon your energy. Do not try to push it into your hands. Do not try to make it stronger.”

Shunjiro watched him.

“Just stand still,” Malachi said. “Close your eyes. Pay attention to what it feels like when your energy disappears.”

Shunjiro hesitated.

Then he nodded.

He closed his eyes.

At first, nothing changed.

He stood in the cold field with the dead forest beyond the iron fence and Malachi’s quiet presence in front of him. He tried to sense his spiritual energy the way he had been taught. He reached inward, searching for the familiar warmth that usually sat somewhere beneath his chest.

It was there.

Barely.

Thin and distant.

He instinctively tried to pull it forward.

“Do not,” Malachi said.

Shunjiro stopped.

“Do not grab it,” Malachi continued. “Let it move on its own.”

Shunjiro took a slow breath.

He tried again.

This time, he did not reach for it.

He simply waited.

For several seconds, there was nothing.

Then he felt a faint shift.

His energy moved beneath his skin like a current he had been too tense to notice before. It was small. Unsteady. It flickered near his chest, then slid down one arm before fading again.

Shunjiro’s eyes opened.

“I felt it.”

Malachi nodded once.

“What did it feel like?”

“Like it was there before I tried to use it.”

“It was.”

Shunjiro frowned.

He closed his eyes again.

This time, he tried to relax his shoulders. He loosened his hands. He focused on breathing instead of pulling energy toward him.

For a moment, the warmth returned.

Then it vanished.

Shunjiro opened his eyes sharply.

“It disappeared again.”

“Did you try to stop it?”

“No.”

“Did you try to control it?”

“I do not know.”

Malachi’s expression softened slightly.

“That is the problem. You have been doing it for so long that you cannot always tell when you are holding it back.”

Frustration rose in Shunjiro’s chest.

He tried again.

The energy flickered.

A faint pressure gathered around his hands, then dropped away before he could understand it. He tried to let it remain. He tried to breathe through it. He tried not to think too hard.

Each time, it changed.

Sometimes it felt like there was almost nothing inside him.

Sometimes a weak current moved through his arms.

Once, for only a heartbeat, the pressure rose enough that he felt stronger. 

Then it disappeared again.

Shunjiro opened his eyes.

“I cannot do it.”

“You cannot do it consistently,” Malachi corrected. “That is different.”

Shunjiro let out a breath through his nose.

“It feels like I am trying random things.”

“You are.”

“That is not very helpful.”

“It is honest.”

Shunjiro looked at him.

Malachi’s mouth lifted faintly.

“You have spent your entire life learning how to fight while your energy behaves in a way you do not understand. It will take time to unlearn whatever instinct has been restraining it.”

Shunjiro’s eyes moved toward his own hands.

“So you think I can turn it off and on?”

“I think you already do.”

“But I cannot control it.”

“Not yet.”

The words were simple.

Still, they gave Shunjiro something he had not felt before.

A direction.

Malachi looked toward the mansion.

“We will not rush the process,” he said. “Before you leave this place, you need to be able to maintain a stable amount of energy without dropping to zero by accident.”

Shunjiro nodded slowly.

“And after that?”

“After that,” Malachi said, “we figure out how far this ability can go.”

After lunch, Malachi did not lead Shunjiro back toward the training field.

Instead, he took him around the side of the mansion and along a narrow stone path that curved behind the dead gardens. The mist was thinner there, held back by the high iron fencing that surrounded the estate, though the dark forest still pressed close beyond it.

Shunjiro followed a few steps behind him, his hands tucked into the pockets of the dark cloak.

He had expected Malachi to send him back into the field immediately. There was still too much he did not understand about his energy, and part of him wanted to keep trying until he could force it to stay present for more than a few seconds.

But Malachi moved with the calm certainty of someone who had already decided what came next.

They passed a row of broken stone statues near the rear of the mansion before Shunjiro noticed a separate structure standing farther down the path.

It was smaller than the mansion but built from the same dark stone. Smoke curled from a narrow chimney above its slanted roof, disappearing into the black sky. The closer they came, the more clearly Shunjiro heard the sound of metal striking metal from somewhere inside.

Malachi reached the door and pushed it open.

Heat rolled out immediately.

Shunjiro stopped at the entrance.

The forge was much warmer than the mansion. A fire burned in a large stone furnace along the far wall, its orange light flickering against the dark interior. Tools hung from wooden racks. Tongs, hammers, files, and long metal rods were arranged neatly along the walls. The floor was marked with old scratches and dark stains from years of work.

But it was the weapons that held Shunjiro’s attention.

Giant blades covered one side of the forge.

Some were mounted directly to the wall. Others rested upright against heavy wooden stands. There were swords with wide, brutal edges, long curved blades that looked like they had been made for cutting through armored opponents, and weapons so large that Shunjiro could not imagine lifting them with both hands.

Each one looked different.

Each one looked dangerous.

Shunjiro stepped inside slowly, his eyes moving across the collection.

“You made all of these?” he asked.

Malachi closed the door behind them.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

Shunjiro walked closer to the wall of weapons, careful not to touch anything. Some of the blades bore marks he did not recognize. Others had handles wrapped in different materials, ranging from dark leather to rope. A few looked unfinished, their metal still rough near the edges.

The longer he looked, the more obvious it became that Malachi had not forged them out of boredom.

There was too much care in every piece.

Even the weapons that looked brutal had been made precisely.

“You really like doing this,” Shunjiro said.

Malachi did not answer right away.

He walked past Shunjiro and moved toward a smaller wooden cabinet near the far end of the forge. He rested one hand on top of it for a moment before opening the doors.

“I do,” he said at last.

Shunjiro watched him reach inside.

Malachi pulled out a narrow black case and carried it to a worktable near the center of the room. He placed it down carefully.

Shunjiro stepped closer.

“What is that?”

Malachi looked at him.

“I had an idea.”

He opened the case.

Inside rested a dagger.

For a moment, Shunjiro forgot how to speak.

The blade was dark enough to seem almost black, but it was not smooth like polished steel. The metal had a rough, uneven texture along the flat of the blade, as though smoke had hardened into metal. Its edge, however, was bright and clean.

Sharp enough that Shunjiro could tell it would cut through almost anything without needing to touch it.

The handle was wrapped in dark leather. A small guard curved around the base of the blade, simple and unadorned.

It was not large.

It was not flashy.

But it looked powerful.

Shunjiro leaned closer without realizing it.

“That is…” He stopped, trying to find the right word. “That looks amazing.”

Malachi’s mouth lifted slightly.

“I was hoping you would think so.”

He held it out toward him.

“It is called the Devil’s Luck Dagger.”

Shunjiro hesitated before accepting it.

The moment the hilt settled into his hand, he understood why Malachi had carried it so carefully.

The dagger had weight.

Not enough to drag down his arm, but more than he expected from something so small. It felt balanced in his grip, the weight centered close to the guard rather than pulling toward the blade.

The metal was cold.

Shunjiro turned it slightly, watching forge light move across the edge.

“It is made from darkfire metal,” Malachi said. “Rare material. Stronger than ordinary steel and much harder to find.”

Shunjiro’s thumb stopped just short of the blade.

“It is beautiful.”

“You should avoid touching the edge.”

“I was not going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Malachi gave him a look.

Shunjiro lowered the dagger slightly.

“Maybe a little.”

“That is how people lose fingers.”

Shunjiro held the dagger in front of him again.

The weapon felt strange in his hand, not because it was uncomfortable, but because it was his.

No one had ever given him a weapon like this before.

He had fought with his fists for as long as he could remember. Even when he trained beside people who carried swords, staffs, or specialized weapons, Shunjiro had always relied on his own body and his spiritual energy.

But this was different.

This was something made for him to keep.

Something he could carry.

Something that could become part of the way he fought.

He tested the balance with a small swing.

The motion was awkward.

The dagger cut through the air cleanly, but his wrist turned too far at the end of the movement, leaving his arm extended in a position that felt wrong even before Malachi said anything.

Malachi laughed again.

Shunjiro looked over.

“What?”

“You swing it like you are trying to use it as a short sword.”

“It is still a blade.”

“It is a dagger.”

“I know that.”

“Then you should probably let it behave like one.”

Shunjiro looked back at the weapon.

“I have never used one before.”

“I noticed.”

Shunjiro gave him a look.

Malachi’s smile remained.

“I will teach you how to use it properly,” he said. “Not today. You have enough to think about without adding a blade to your hands.”

Shunjiro nodded slowly.

“Why are you showing it to me now?”

“Because I think it may help.”

“With my energy?”

“Yes.”

Malachi moved to the worktable and rested one hand against its edge.

“You have spent years trying to pull spiritual energy directly through your body. That is not necessarily wrong, but it is clearly not working the way it should. A weapon gives the energy somewhere else to go.”

Shunjiro looked down at the dagger.

“You think it will be easier to use my energy through this?”

“I think it might be.” Malachi’s eyes settled on the blade. “Some people have an easier time moving energy into a weapon than forcing it into their fists. A weapon can become an extension of the soul too, provided the person holding it learns how to treat it properly.”

Shunjiro tightened his grip around the hilt.

An extension of the soul.

The words made him think about what Malachi had told him in the field.

His energy had always felt like something he needed to force into place. Something distant and unreliable. Something that disappeared whenever he needed it most.

Maybe holding a weapon would make it easier to notice the moment it began slipping away.

Maybe it would give him something solid to focus on.

Malachi watched his expression.

“There is another reason,” he said.

Shunjiro looked up.

“That dagger is special to me.”

Shunjiro’s hands stilled.

“Why?”

“It is the only dagger I have ever successfully imbued with Devil’s Luck.”

Shunjiro frowned.

“Devil’s Luck?”

Malachi nodded.

“You do not know what it is?”

“No.”

Malachi was quiet for a moment.

Then he pulled a chair away from the worktable and sat down, motioning for Shunjiro to do the same.

Shunjiro sat across from him, still holding the dagger carefully in both hands.

“Devil’s Luck is an ability,” Malachi said. “Not one that people are born with. It is something a person can learn, though very few ever do.”

Shunjiro listened closely.

“It allows its user to defy death in ways that should not be possible,” Malachi continued. “A strike that should kill them might miss by an inch. A wound that should be fatal may hit somewhere less dangerous. A moment that should end in death becomes survival instead.”

Shunjiro’s eyes widened slightly.

“That sounds useful.”

“It is.”

Malachi’s expression became more serious.

“It is also dangerous.”

Shunjiro waited.

“The user cannot activate it themselves,” Malachi said. “It happens instinctively. Randomly. You do not get to choose when it protects you, and you do not get to choose when it fails to.”

Shunjiro looked down at the dagger.

“There is always a cost,” Malachi added.

His voice was calm, but there was no humor in it now.

“Every time Devil’s Luck activates for its user, it shortens their lifespan.”

Shunjiro looked back up.

  “How much?”

“That depends on the person and the moment,” Malachi said. “But enough that I would never recommend someone chase the ability simply because they are afraid of dying.”

Shunjiro thought about that.

An ability that could turn death away.

A power that could save someone at the cost of years they had not lived yet.

It sounded less like luck than a debt.

“Do you use it?” he asked.

“I have.”

Malachi did not say anything else.

Shunjiro did not push.

“There are specific requirements for learning it,” Malachi continued. “They are rare enough that most people never have the chance, and dangerous enough that most people should not try.”

He looked directly at Shunjiro.

“I do not recommend you ever attempt to learn it.”

Shunjiro nodded.

“I will not.”

“Good.”

Malachi’s attention shifted toward the dagger in Shunjiro’s hands.

“This weapon does not carry Devil’s Luck in the same way I do,” he said. “It cannot defy death. It will not take years from your life. It does not have the power to make impossible things happen.”

Shunjiro looked at the dark blade again.

“Then what does it do?”

“The dagger has an ability of its own.”

Malachi leaned forward slightly.

“When it cuts something, there is a chance it will trigger a critical hit.”

“A critical hit?”

“It is random,” Malachi said. “You cannot call for it. You cannot depend on it. But when it happens, the dagger will release the Devil’s Luck I imbued into it.”

He held one hand over the blade without touching it.

“Energy will explode from the weapon. The force of the attack and the spiritual energy behind it will be multiplied three times over.”

Shunjiro stared at him.

“Three times?”

“Yes.”

“If I made a small cut-”

“Then it could become something much worse.”

Malachi’s expression remained steady.

“A shallow wound could become deep. A cut that should only slow someone down could take away a limb. The difference depends on the strike, the target, and how much energy you are able to put behind it.”

Shunjiro looked at the dagger with new caution.

The blade had seemed impressive before.

Now it felt almost unreal.

A weapon that could turn one successful strike into something three times stronger than it should have been.

A weapon he had not earned.

A weapon Malachi was placing in his hands anyway.

“But it is random,” Malachi said, as though reading the thought on Shunjiro’s face.

Shunjiro looked up.

“You do not build your fighting style around luck. You do not rush into danger expecting the dagger to save you. You fight like the effect will never trigger.”

“And if it does?”

“Then you take the chance it gives you.”

Shunjiro lowered his eyes again.

An unexpected chance.

The idea stayed with him.

He could not rely on it.

But there would be moments in a fight when one opening mattered more than anything. Moments when the difference between a normal strike and a stronger one could decide whether someone lived.

Maybe the dagger could become useful then.

Maybe it could become another way to protect people.

Shunjiro held it out slightly, studying the rough dark surface of the metal.

“Why give this to me?”

Malachi did not answer immediately.

The fire in the furnace crackled behind him.

Finally, he rested both arms against the table.

“Because I have taken a liking to you.”

Shunjiro blinked.

Malachi’s expression did not change.

“You are determined. You ask questions. You are scared, but you keep moving anyway. That is worth something.”

Shunjiro did not know how to respond.

Malachi continued before he could try.

“And because you are going to need a weapon.”

The bluntness of the second answer made Shunjiro look down again.

He tightened his grip around the dagger.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Malachi nodded once.

“Take care of it.”

“I will.”

“It has survived a long time. I would prefer it not to meet its end because you decided to throw it at something.”

“I would not do that.”

“You swung it like a short sword less than five minutes ago.”

“That is different.”

“It is not.”

Shunjiro could not stop the small laugh that escaped him.

Malachi stood and walked toward a rack mounted near the wall. He removed a simple leather sheath from one of the hooks and carried it back to Shunjiro.

“It will sit at your side,” he said. “Do not keep it in your hand all day. A weapon is useful, but only if you know when it should stay put.”

Shunjiro accepted the sheath.

After a moment of fumbling with the strap, he fastened it around his waist beneath the cloak. The dagger slid into place with a soft click.

He rested one hand over the hilt.

The weight against his side felt unfamiliar.

But it also felt right.

His first weapon.

A gift from Malachi.

Malachi watched him for a moment before turning toward the forge door.

“Come on,” he said. “That is enough for today.”

Shunjiro blinked, surprised.

“We are not going back to the field?”

Malachi shook his head as he stepped outside.

“You have done enough. Your body needs rest, and your mind needs time to settle. Pushing further now would only slow your progress.”

Shunjiro followed him out into the cold air, the warmth of the forge fading behind them. The dagger rested against his side beneath the cloak, still faintly warm.

Malachi glanced at him briefly.

“Go inside,” he said. “Find a bath. Clean yourself up and get some rest before dinner.”

Shunjiro nodded.

“Alright.”

Malachi turned slightly toward the path leading back to the mansion.

“We will continue tomorrow.”

Shunjiro looked toward the distant training field for a moment, then back toward the mansion and headed inside.